Kvo'Ratt
by Braxin
Summary: The Enterprises sails along her course in endless universes, and some of them are quite nasty. This is a glimpse into one such dark universe, though this is not a Mirror Universe story, as such.
1. Chapter 1

**Act 1: Kvo'ratt**

* * *

It might have all been prevented, T'Pol realized that in retrospect.

It hadn't even occurred to her to check at the time, yet such a simple thing had almost undone them all.

That simple thing was the kvo'ratt.

The kvo'ratt was a relatively harmless Vulcan insect save for the truly wild and aggressive subspecies found in harsh places like the Forge, though it was generally considered an ill omen to cross paths with the kvo'ratt as an effect of their ecological niche, for the kvo'ratt were the scavengers of the desert, and they were named Corpse Eaters in Vulcan, or sometimes Eaters of the Dead. The nearest translation to English would have been Zombie Cicadas, though the kvo'ratt were nowhere as benign as cicadas, despite the fact that they looked similar to those insects at one particular stage during their maturation cycle.

Now, the Vulcan fleet's protocols for preventing kvo'ratt from infesting their space vessels was centuries old. Followed meticulously at all times, of course - Vulcans were Vulcan, after all, and generally perfectionists - but such protocols were not given undue thought by other species.

The Enterprise had DECON procedures too. Barely adequate procedures to T'Pol's way of thinking, but usually adequate to prevent Terran vermin from infesting their food stores. It was also true that had the Enterprise picked up supplies from any other alien planet, the crew would have been more careful in handling these supplies, but Starfleet's cautious attitude towards Vulcans was being gradually undermined. Not entirely of course, but enough. Just enough that several tons of food supplies from Vulcan prompted only complaints about unpalatability, rather than fears of contamination, and nefarious consequences of such contamination.

And even then, even had these kvo'ratt been wild kvo'ratt, well, unpleasant as that prospect might seem, still no one would have died. Certainly not this many crewmen. No, while a normal infestation would have been unpleasant, it would not have been dangerous, but than, these kvo'ratt were no ordinary kvo'ratt, and these kvo'ratt had not been satisfied with refuse alone.

* * *

Michael Rostov pondered the proper shaving schedule which would leave him acceptably groomed for his morning work shift, but also roguishly handsome for his evening date. He decided that he would shave this evening. This would allow him almost 24 hours of growth for his date and would all but certainly escape the attention of Commander Tucker. The Commander was famously lenient about facial hair, provided it was not long enough to actually become caught in things. In fact, Tucker had even once joked that a little bit of fuzz might offer some protection, given that the damn consoles kept exploding whenever anyone looked at them sideways.

Whether that was true or not, shaving was about to kill Michael Rostov.

It was only a relatively small nick. The type of nick Michael was more than willing to endure to continue shaving the way his dad had taught him, rather than switching to the newfangled depilatory light wands. It was a link to the past, an unbroken line through the centuries. Certainly worth the odd drop of blood or two.

Although, it was a little more than a drop or two today.

Michael patiently blotted at his chin with a hand towel, until the blood beaded and stilled. Then he tossed the towel towards the hamper, and leaving it where it fell, just short. Untidy perhaps. The sort of thing which would make his mother roll her eyes, but not the sort of thing which normally killed you.

Afterwards, a Vulcan entomologist would declaim loudly to the survivors how fascinating it was that kvo'ratt, evolved to be attracted by the copper-based blood of Vulcan's higher lifeforms, could have so quickly developed a nose for the iron-based blood of the Enterprise crew. Shortly afterwards, the entomologist had a hairline fracture in his jaw, Commander Tucker had three broken fingers. No one in the room could quite account for it, as the Commander had definitely been way over on the other side of the room, when the Vulcan fell.

All that aside, the proximity of the blooded hand towel to the air duct, and the proximity of Michael's quarters to a nearby air filter sealed his fate. He would never keep this date, because he was, unknowingly, three hours from death, and no more than forty minutes from wishing he was dead.

* * *

"Where the hell is he?" said Commander Tucker. "Where's Rostov?"

"I don't know," said Lt. Reed. "I've looked for him."

"Look harder, would ya?" said Tucker. "We're on a goddamn spaceship! It's not like he could have wandered off."

"I know we're on a BLOODY SPACESHIP," said Lt. Reed. "That completely obvious fact has not escaped my attention. But I am telling you. I. HAVE. LOOKED!"

Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were exceedingly worried about Crewman Michael Rostov's disappearance, as well as the fact that the man had apparently completely vanished from the ship, in deep space: there was zero chance of him jumping ship anywhere round here, for there was no planet to give him refuge. And now both Tucker and Reed were handling their anxiety badly, which only caused their respective teams consternation, including Crewman Delista, Rostov's date for this evening. Delista was borderline hysterical and was declaring in an ever louder voice that Rostov would have definitely gotten lucky after their date, though Tucker and Reed were doing quite an admirable job of pretending to be oblivious to this.

"Then look in more places," said Commander Tucker.

"I've looked everywhere!" said Lt. Reed.

"Then, look everywhere AGAIN!" said Tucker.

Delista began to sob.

"Would you two keep it down?" said the newly arrived third participant to their conversation, Archer: he was also quite worried, for he felt a deep personal responsibility for each member of his crew, and he channeled his anxiety into calling Tucker and Reed to heel, and refocusing their efforts.

In less than a minute he would join Tucker in demanding Reed search again, which Reed and his team would do - quite fruitlessly, as he did not know anything of the 4,000 Kvo'ratt which had bred up in the inner workings of Enterprise over the last two months months. Lately, the kvo'ratt had outgrown the supply of garbage produced by the crew and had gone in search of food. What's more, these were no normal kvo'ratt, and hunger here served only to heighten aggression, rather than induce hibernation.

In any case, not knowing about the presence of the kvo'ratt, Lt. Reed could not possibly have checked their stomach contents for the missing Rostov, nor could he have known, that fascinated by the oscillations of Rostov's shrieks, several Kvo'ratt had crawled down his throat, and torn into his vocal cords quite early in the process of consuming the Human victim, as their poison had already paralyzed the majority of the man's muscle mass.

* * *

Dr. Phlox escorted Elizabeth Cutler back to her quarters. On their way, they passed Sub-Commander T'Pol standing perfectly still in the corridor, her head slightly tilted, her face a mask of concentration.

But Phlox's attention was elsewhere.

"You should come back to sickbay," he said, referring to the Rigellian leech bite on Cutler's hand.

Cutler's eyes rolled. "It's a leech bite, from feeding your critters earlier today. It's happened before. It's fine."

Privately, Phlox agreed. He was looking for a pretext to avoid saying goodnight to her. He was lonely and he liked her. He enjoyed her company.

He would never see her again.

* * *

"I think it's the transporter."

Travis had tried floating this particular theory earlier on both, the hysterical Hoshi Sato and the nakedly skeptical Trip Tucker, but he now realized the paranoid Malcolm Reed was his best audience for this particular theory.

Reed's features were drawn and heavy. He'd been woken by the news of Cutler's disappearance. And that had been two days ago. Two disappearances ago.

"What?" said Reed.

"I think it's the transporter," said Travis. "Activating in the middle of the night. Beaming people into space."

Reed blinked slowly, then said, "You think the transporter is… haunted?"

"No! I think it's malfunctioning."

Reed rubbed his face with his hands. "I checked the transporter logs. I checked everything. I've looked EVERYWHERE."

Reed had looked everywhere, Travis knew that much. He'd looked everywhere personally by now.

"You should sleep, Malcolm."

Reed shook his head. "Four people are missing."

* * *

The next day it was six… the day after, ten.

* * *

Jonathan Archer eyed the Vulcan with irritation. His so called 'science officer' had been no help at all. The woman was unusually silent, even for her. He could swear she was spending her time listening to the bulkheads.

He surveyed the bridge.

He didn't need Vulcan hearing to tell that Hoshi Sato's heart was pounding like a jackrabbit's. Her eyes darted around the bridge near constantly. She jumped at the slightest sound; the clunk of a dropped PADD unit as it hit the deck, someone clearing their throat. He should never have brought her out here.

Travis Mayweather had lost it a few days ago, when his deputy had been one of the latest disappearances. He'd gone down to the transporter room and had begun tearing it's components out of the deck, cursing wildly.

Trip still hadn't fixed it.

And Malcolm Reed. Reed spent his days staring at the internal scanners. In theory, he was watching the crew's life-signs. In practice, he was policing the rigid "buddy system" he'd implemented after the fourteenth disappearance. But it wasn't working.

With a start, Archer realized that, apart from tearing strips from haphazard 'buddies', he hadn't heard Reed speak in over two days.

"People don't just disappear," Reed had said then. "They just don't."

Archer turned back to T'Pol. The damn woman was still staring into space, her head slightly cocked.

"How long until we rendezvous with the T'Karrad, Sub-commander?" said Archer.

"Five days, Captain."

Five days, thought Archer: there might be no one left alive on the Enterprise by that time.

"Don't you Vulcan's have any closer ships which could render aid?" Archer snapped: the one time the damn pixies weren't following them around with a damn pooper-scooper…

"The T'Karrad is closest Captain."

Five more days...

* * *

"No. I'm not taking a goddamn panic whistle in the shower with me, Lieutenant, and you aren't coming in either."

"But…"

"No," said Trip. "Sit down. That's an order."

Trip marched into his bathroom, difficult to do in a dignified way while wrapped in a towel, but dignity had gone out the window days ago, right around the time Malcolm Reed moved in with him. Still, it could have been worse. He could have been buddied up with T'Pol.

There was an exact water pressure setting which made the pipes moan slightly, one that Trip usually avoided, but today it would prove terribly useful to drown out Malcolm Reed's ongoing, passive-aggressive RANTING.

Should have ordered him to shut up, while I was at it, thought Trip.

He closed his eyes under the cascade of water, and let it wash over him. He'd hoped that it would give him peace, but his thoughts would not be stilled.

He had cut his hand slightly, racing through routine maintenance. A simple job he'd done a hundred times. Accidents were becoming more common. Between the extra shifts, and whatever mouth of hell was consuming there shipmates, people weren't sleeping.

And then, there were stories. Old stories. Told by the first deep space crews. Disappearances, unexplained deaths… strange happenings in the empty voids of interstellar space. Superstitions, Trip had always thought. Modern day Sirens, Behemoths. Mermaids. But what to make of all that was happening aboard the Enterprise now? Could there be something to those superstitions?

When he saw that damned thing, Trip wasted those first, best seconds to act, not really believing what he was seeing, and thus not reacting properly.

I'm hallucinating, he thought. Space crazy. An insect the size of a hypo-spanner did NOT just crawl out of my shower drain.

Trip closed his eyes momentarily, certain that he was hallucinating, and expecting that the nasty apparition would be gone when he opened them. Instead he was just in time to see the creature, and several of its kind, jumping for his face, while dozens more had apparently poured out of shower drain since the time Trip had seen the first, and had jumped on his legs and torso. Then kvo'ratt began biting Trip, and injecting a sedative into his bloodstream in the process.

By pure luck, Trip managed to scream. He regretted it for a second, when one of the damned things leapt down the back of his throat, but between the paralysis inducing bites which had just been delivered, and the mandibles biting into his vocal cords, it was his only chance to make a sound, and despite the shrieking pipes, Malcolm heard it, and were it not for him, Trip would have been eaten alive. Alerted by that single scream, Reed barged in, and then half dragged, half carried the sodden, bleeding Engineer out to the corridor and tore the bugs from Trip's throat and skin with his bare hands, saved only by the fact that the single minded kvo'ratt were focused on Trip.

Just then, the poison started to affect even the muscles of Trip's chest and diaphragm, and the man was shortly struggling to breathe.

* * *

Despite having neither eaten nor slept properly for several days, Captain Jonathan Archer ran with considerable speed to sickbay, leaving him feeling light-headed and nauseated. The sight which greeted him on his arrival, didn't help much. His best friend on a respirator, his doctor putting his tactical officer on another respirator… and his first officer carefully examining goo on the sole of a boot.

"What the hell is going on?" gasped Archer.

T'Pol glanced over at him coolly. "Kvo'ratt, Captain. Apparently, genetically engineered."

Archer tried to focus on T'Pol's explanation of the sand-dwelling zombie cicadas of Vulcan. About how their unique chitin made them difficult to spot using Enterprises sensors. About the ability of a moderately-sized swarm to consume the remains of large animals in a matter of minutes.

"Who the hell would genetically engineer these things?" said Archer. "And why see them brought to the Enterprise?"

"That remains to be seen, Captain, but it would appear, Captain, that these kvo'ratt have developed a taste for human blood. And, given that we have not found any remains from the 32 missing crewmembers, one would presume, the rest of the human corpora as well."

"You mean, these things… have killed our missing people, and consumed their bodies?" said Archer.

The words felt false in his mouth. It couldn't be true. Surely not!

One delicate eyebrow arched on T'Pol's smooth brow. "I believe these kvo'ratt have killed the missing people BY consuming their bodies."

Archer vomited.

* * *

For the last four days before the T'Karrad arrived, the surviving crew huddled in Engineering, armed with phase pistols, mallets and the antitoxin which Phlox had developed, and which had saved lives.

Once they did that, they only lost three more people. Two died when a panel gave way, and a swarm burst out from behind it, attacking twelve people at once. After that, Malcolm and Trip had worked together to find a way to fire a dispersed phase-pistol blast, and their innovation had saved what remained of the crew of diffusion converted a killing blast to a stun, but the rest of the crew were standing by, with mallets and boots to kill the stunned kvo'ratt.

That's how the T'Karrad found them. Huddled together in groups throughout the ship, pistols and mallets at the ready. Humanity's finest. Crew of the Great Warp 5 Adventure.

The final death had been Hoshi Sato's. She had been bitten the previous night, but unaccountably, she had told no one. And no one noticed when she curled up in a corner and let the poison take her.

"She's so small," Trip had rasped, his new voice barely audible: healing would take a few months, even with Phlox's help. "Light weight, ya know? Maybe she couldn't call for help before the poison affected her."

Maybe, thought Archer, but he didn't really think so. No, Archer thought, Hoshi had simply been exposed to more than she could handle, and she'd opted out… and he'd been the one who had brought her into all of this, and for that, he'd never forgive himself.

But someone had been behind all this, someone was behind every death aboard this ship, and Archer meant to find out who was responsible for these deaths, and he meant to see that justice was done, and just thinking of it, Archer realized that the suspects were a legion, but he would find them, that much was certain.

* * *

*This story, which was a collaborative effort with an author who considers this story too grim to be published, and was originally intended to be a short story, but in my opinion it has the potential to be expanded into something much more than this, as Archer seeks the answers for this plague, aided by the rest of his surviving crew. I hope I can sway my co-author to see the possibilities of this and expand upon this theme, which was her's to begin with, and the majority of the work was her's, and if I get my way, this grim story will have an ending which delivers some payback to the dastardly creators of these genetic horrors.

**I thought of allowing the originator of this dark story to remain veiled in secrecy as she fears the blowback, but if I'm publishing this dark story, and running for my life for doing so, well, then you're running with me. MostDismalFeldsparkle, take a bow!


	2. Chapter 2

Eight months later…

It could scarcely be called rain, this liquid which fell from the skies of Verex III, so T'Pol strode smartly through the gloomy streets to minimise her exposure, and she did not forget, however, to adopt the particular walk expected of a woman, in this place, at this time, dressed as she was... and as such the glances she drew, while leering, and sometimes threatening, did not seem suspicious.

The garment she wore, composed merely of a few strategically woven straps of red and black leather, did not provide much protection as such, and rounding the final corner, T'Pol suppressed her grimace at the thought of what toxins might be contained in the water clinging to her bare midriff, her exposed cleavage, her now long, blonde-dyed hair.

Although the twilight smog of the capital made it hard to see more than a block or so ahead, the sickly green lights of her destination were now, at last, coming into view. The sewer grating, draining the poisoned rain and releasing a fetid stench in return, threatened to catch the quickening spikes of her heels, but T'Pol kept her footing and eventually, with little relief, she traded the toxic stench of the streets for the more sexual miasma of the Verdeen Club.

The fetid air inside had all but curdled with the stench of the sweat and waste of a dozen different species of traders, and the excrement of vermin littered the floor. T'Pol hoped that the offending vermin were mammalian or reptilian rather than insectoid. After the kvo'ratt episode on the Enterprise, she now found insects... unsettling.

Fortunately, the man she came to meet had also arrived early. She would not have recognized him had she not been purposely looking for him. He'd altered his hair color - it was lighter now - and he was using a different accent as well, one that, if T'Pol recalled the geography of earth correctly, seemed to shift his place of birth 200 miles or so west, to a different island. Still, any doubts that she had the right man were banished when he smiled tightly as his gaze drifted over her. The subtle asymmetry of the expression was an artifact of one of the envenomations he acquired rescuing Commander Tucker from the kvo'ratt attack.

He summoned her now, with a facsimile of the local gesture. He even had the presence of mind to ensure he did so first, saving T'Pol the trouble of pretending not to see similar gestures from more affluent looking potential customers. T'Pol undulated over to the dark corner in which he'd seated himself and climbed into his lap. He played along with the illusion, adopting a leering mask, but his eyes sought something else. Information.

"Not here," T'Pol murmured into his ear.

"No," he agreed.

"Are you alone?" said T'Pol, subtly projecting her voice a bit to be overheard by at least a few people. "I charge extra for groups."

"Two others."

T'Pol nodded. Archer would be one, no doubt. But she was uncertain who the other might be. Mayweather perhaps?

"Very well. We should go to your accommodations," said T'Pol. "I think you will be pleased with what I have to offer you all."

Reed nodded casually, and they left the bar, pleasingly unobserved.

* * *

Jonathan Archer rubbed at the hotel window with distaste, finding, with a sigh that the grime was on the outside. The windows didn't open, and that was all for the best. As distasteful as their accommodations, the view of the street would be no more pleasant and the smell would almost certainly be worse.

Malcolm had picked this flea trap. Money had been no object, there had been a surprising number of backers for this mission. Several of the bereaved parents and spouses were quite wealthy, and even those that were not had still scraped SOMETHING together. But that was nothing compared to the resources which Malcolm apparently had on tap. And of course, there had been a hefty donation from an organization which Malcolm called 'the useful idiots', though they called themselves 'Terra Prime'.

So they were well funded; they could have stayed in the best luxury hotels which Verex III had to offer its tourists, without noticing the expense. But instead, Malcolm had carefully calibrated the exact expense bracket which matched their cover stories, seemingly spending weeks meticulously researching this one detail.

EVERY detail.

Archer's former tactical officer apparently had quite the knack for this sort of thing. And now he was out pretending to solicit Archer's former first officer for sex.

"Ever wonder how the hell we got here?" Archer asked into the brooding silence.

Trip gestured non-descriptly, but didn't answer. He spoke less these days. The new voice was... fine. Sexy even, given its affect - and the story that went with it - on the various vampish bar crawlers they had encountered over the last few months. Very low, gravelly, laconic - in other words, nothing like Trip at all.

The bar crawlers weren't like Trip either, and yet he'd been consuming them like pretzels. But Archer had known Trip a long time, and it was clear he had not the slightest interest in any of these women. Not one of them had inspired that strange, intense manner which Trip adopted around women that actually excited him. Archer hadn't seen that Trip since Enterprise.

Except...

...except there was just a hint of that Trip here tonight.

"It will be good to see T'Pol again, won't it?" said Archer, discreetly watching Trip for expression. "Whatever she's found..."

"Yeah. Yeah it will."

* * *

T'Pol followed the former Lieutenant Reed through the streets of the capital. Without her need to display her professional garb in order to avoid being expectantly enslaved, Reed was free to adopt a hood against the noxious rain. He moved quickly though, perhaps in deference to T'Pol's predicament, and the Vulcan appreciated his perceptiveness.

Although she had known the less savory details of the man's life before she had even met him, T'Pol still found herself impressed with the ease at which he blended in with his surroundings. He moved with a cocksure confidence and had adopted a perfectly crafted mask of ugly indifference, so different from the manner he had affected on Enterprise.

This is what his recruiters must have seen in him, a natural chameleon, a man who could be anyone. T'Pol allowed herself to wonder for a moment why a man who could be anyone had chosen to become the Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Enterprise. But such questions rarely produced satisfactory answers, so T'Pol instead turned her thoughts to the two other men they were to meet shortly. Archer, no doubt... and who else? Who would it be?

She found herself strangely curious. No. MORE than that. She wanted to ASK. It was a foolish impulse. A completely unnecessary risk to her cover, to the whole operation, for a question which would be answered momentarily. So why would the impulse not leave her mind?

Because. Because it would not be Mayweather. Because it would be... him.

It would be him. And that was...

...wonderful.

As furiously as she tried to stamp down the ridiculous notion, it would not leave her mind. Why should she care? He was arrogant. Infuriating. He surely hated Vulcans now, and Vulcan insects, and Vulcan everything. He surely hated HER. He had almost died due to the kvo'ratt.

Yes, he had almost died...

... and she had felt something on that day.

It won't be him, she told herself, as they entered the squalid little building, climbed the narrow, hypodermic-littered stairs. He'll be back on Earth with his presumably equally arrogant and furious family, occupying his time by telling his story in bars as a means of drawing beautiful women to his side, before bedding them.

But, when Reed opened the door, it WAS him.

She froze. He stood. She stood, still frozen.

He pulled her into an embrace. An embrace! And despite her shock, and despite her trepidation, T'Pol melted into that embrace.

He whispered, "It's good to see you, T'Pol."

Her cheek brushed against his shoulder, and his scent was intoxicating... but then she'd always found it so.


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm automatically clocked the seconds until T'Pol and Trip broke their embrace. He considered adopting an indulgent facial expression, although what he truly felt was weary impatience. He briefly considered offering a wry observation that HE had not received such a hug from T'Pol, but that was hardly fair, given how she had been immediately been compelled to climb into his lap for the sake of their cover not long ago. In the end though, seeing as he was unobserved, he did nothing at all, instead softening his focus, savoring the coolness of the room for a few moments, the sound of his own breath, a small moment of quiet in the maelstrom of revenge which was slowly eating him alive.

Those wretched bugs will eat all of us one way or another, he thought. Just see if they don't.

As if on cue, a flash of movement caught his eye. A fat brown beetle like thing - something like a cockroach was climbing the crumbling plaster of the opposite wall. It had ten legs, Malcolm noticed, and long, elegant antennae sweeping back and forward in unison. And, it turned out, peacock blue guts which leaked out around the point of the knife he had just casually thrown through it from across the room.

T'Pol and Trip broke apart and joined Archer in staring, first at the sickly blue fluid oozing done the wall, and then, warily at Malcolm.

Better be careful, Malcolm told himself. People will think you're unhinged.

"Bugs," he said aloud, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I can't stand the fucking things now."

"I hear that," said Trip, with a grin.

Well enough to leave it at that, thought Malcolm: further explanations would not have been reassuring.

* * *

"Flarax Flael," pronounced T'Pol, pulling a photo of a rather morose-looking Denobulan up on the video display.

"You're sure?" Archer asked surveying the picture. The man looked rather more like a traffic comptroller than a mad scientist. "He's the one we want?"

T'Pol's brow furrowed. "Perfectly sure. The genetic augmentations are characteristic of his particular methodology and I have intelligence confirming his involvement..."

"And," Malcolm interrupted. "He'll be passing through Verex III in two days' time, you said? That's not long to prepare..."

Archer frowned. "Prepare for what? I mean, we offer the guy money to flip on his employer. I know you like to plan things to within an inch of your life, Malcolm, but surely it won't take you longer than two days to put some money in an envelope? I mean, you suddenly seem to access to a whole bunch of it."

"There's a little more to it than that, sir," said Reed.

"So what, a suitcase full of money then?" Archer shot back, not particularly liking the ways in which Malcolm and T'Pol's eyes were meeting over his head.

"Perhaps you should leave the details to Mr. Reed and myself, Captain," T'Pol replied coolly.

Archer sighed. "It's not 'Captain' anymore, T'Pol, or 'sir' either, Malcolm. Enterprise is far behind us."

Which was nonsense of course. Enterprise was everything now. Enterprise and 35 names. Jonathan Archer would not rest - could not rest - until those 35 names were tattooed on the faces of those responsible. Jane Taylor along their jaws, Michael Rostov on their foreheads, Hoshi Sato under their right eyes.

Enterprise would never be far behind them.

* * *

"I was cold," said T'Pol. "Do you mind?"

Trip did not mind. He did not mind that she had woken him, that she had dispelled the dream. The perennial one. The one where he hadn't managed to scream. He did not mind that she had crawled into his bed. Empty beds were overrated. These days, he filled his as much as possible.

He shook his head. Then wondered if he should have answered aloud. Could Vulcans see in the dark? He couldn't remember.

In any case shifting over slightly to better accommodate her presence seemed answer enough.

They lay together in the dark. She radiated a lot of heat.

"Better?" he rasped, softly. "Warmer, I mean?"

"Yes..."

He felt her roll over to face him.

"...Thank you."

He felt her hand brush against the side of his face. He caught a faint trace of fragrance. Something like burning flowers.

Hesitantly he reached into the dark for her face, but missed, instead caressing the length of her collar bone. Even as he tried to redirect his hand higher, she caught him by the wrist and directed it lower instead, pressing it against her full breast.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked, in that hoarse, alien voice he still barely recognized.

"Yes," she replied softly.

"I thought Vulcans didn't lie? Or is that crap?"

Her other hand found him.

"Yes."

* * *

"A suitcase full of money," Reed said, mockingly.

The building was rented from its owner by Reed's former employer, the agency which Starfleet Intelligence chose to be ignorant about. It had apparently been easy for Reed to arrange to borrow it. As easy as it had been to snatch Flarax Flael of the street.

T'Pol watched the man pace. It was clear he had slipped some leash or another. Was perhaps free of one for the first time in his life.

"Jonathan Archer is naive," she replied patiently. "This is surely not surprising."

"And I suppose he'll just remain naive?" said Reed. "Exist in some fantasy about bringing evil doers to justice with nothing more than a cloak or righteousness and a 'can do' attitude. And I suppose we'll let him? Keep his hands clean."

T'Pol frowned. "If he believes that nothing more than bribery will be required here, what purpose does it serve to disillusion him?"

Reed shrugged, pacing back and forth. Prowling. "No purpose, I suppose. Just fairness. Commensurateness."

"Harming him doesn't lessen your injury," T'Pol replied cautiously. She did not miss much about Enterprise, but she would have liked the advantage of rank over her companion now. "Your bitterness is illogical. Are you capable of doing what is required?"

"More than capable," said Reed.

"Are you certain?"

"More certain than I'd like to be, T'Pol."

"Then further delay is illogical," said T'Pol. "Let us proceed."

With that T'Pol spun on her heels and strode into the adjacent room, where Flael was restrained, hearing Reed follow behind her.

The room was windowless and quite poorly lit, but the struggling Flael was hooded anyway, bound to a chair in the center of the room. T'Pol took care to walk with a bit less grace than usual, so that Flael would hear her approach.

The geneticist's struggles stilled the moment he heard T'Pol's entrance.

For a minute or so she leveraged Denobulan dislike for physical contact with strangers by pressing down firmly on his shoulders. Once his breathing and heart rate had increased by 40% she whipped off the hood. The Denobulan's head swung around wildly trying to catch a glimpse of her, but she had positioned herself out of his sight. Although was unable to see her, he did eventually discern Reed lurking in the shadows a short distance away, causing his heart rate to accelerate even further.

"Please," Flael whimpered. "I'm a poor man. A scientist. I have three wives to support. Eight children."

Reed chuckled darkly. "Well, none of that is true. Your children are grown. Your wives are ably employed in their own right, with two other husbands each. And, you are not a poor man."

As Flael sputtered T'Pol leaned down, whispering in his ear: "You have made a bad start, doctor. It would be unwise to lie to this man. He is... unstable."

Flael nodded miserably. "Okay, you're right. I have money. I can pay you. I'll pay anything, just please... let me go."

T'Pol leaned down again. "We are not concerned with money. What we require from you is information..."

As if to punctuate her words, Reed shot towards them and dropped a heavy transparent box onto Flael's lap. Inside it were a number of kvo'ratt.

These were ordinary kvo'ratt, trapped near Mount Seleya by one of T'Pol's former contacts, but they looked identical to the genetically engineered ones which had killed a third of Enterprise crew. The ones designed by Dr. Flarax Flael.

Flael, wide eyed stared at the kvo'ratt and then lifted his eyes to Reed, perhaps registering for the first time that Reed was human.

"I'm sorry," Flael whispered. "I had no idea what they were for. You have to believe me. My nephew's third wife's aunt's brother-in-law was ON that ship."

"Sorry?" Reed murmured. "Are you?"

"Yes!" Flael insisted urgently. "If I had known, I would have... they told me that."

"If you are really sorry you will tell us what we want to know," T'Pol interrupted sharply. "The identities of 'They'. Who ordered you to engineer the kvo'ratt?"

The question hung in the air, punctuated by Flaels breathy pants, and for a moment, T'Pol hoped it might be that easy, but then...

"I can't!" Flael cried miserably. "They'll kill me. The two of you are definitely doing a good job of being scary. But everyone knows that humans are peaceful. These people you are after? They'll swallow you whole. Now, I'm sorry about your ship, but you should just go home and try to, AGGGHHH!"

Reed's blade was quick and skilful. In truth, it wasn't a very deep cut, and it was carefully placed along the jaw line - away from major arteries and nerves and where a skilled surgeon might conceal the scar amid the natural contours of Flael's face. But Flael couldn't see the cut and the blade had been laced with an acidic solution to make it feel worse than it was, and an anticoagulant to make it bleed profusely.

Reed rested the bloody blade atop of the transparent box, near an air hole and the kvo'ratt inside burst into a flurry of activity scrambling over each other towards the lid. In truth, these relatively harmless wild kvo'ratt were after the traces of necrotic flesh which had joined the lemon juice and anticoagulant lacing the blade. But Flael only saw them hungry for his blood.

"Oh dear," Reed cooed. "It appears your ministrations have made Denobulan blood attractive to them as well. How very careless of you, doctor! Still, I had been wondering what I should feed them..."

Three minutes later, Flael produced a name.


	4. Chapter 4

"Norik…"

They had a name. Reed murmured the name contemplatively, in the third minute of washing his hands now, while T'Pol thought furiously… it couldn't be.

"Have you heard of him?" Reed asked suddenly. "T'Pol?"

T'Pol hoped she hadn't visibly started.

It ** _couldn't_** be!

Norik.

Agriculture Minister Norik of the Vulcan High Command.

Norik.

Former V'Shar command operative. T'Pol's former mentor.

"I know his reputation," T'Pol replied carefully, while she tried desperately to somehow seat this piece of information in her mind.

At some point Reed's attention had shifted from the flow of water over his hands, to T'Pol. He was watching her, and T'Pol was grateful for the poor lighting now, for Mr. Reed was no joke.

"Oh?" said Reed. "And what is his reputation?"

T'Pol swallowed and the sound of her voice seemed abnormally loud, even to her own ears.

"He is currently the Agriculture Minister on the Vulcan High Command," said T'Pol. "He is known to be a fair, and not particularly innovative politician. A conservative. A hard worker, but not brilliant. Unremarkable."

That is how Norik _**was**_ known. But T'Pol knew better.

"You've never met him?" Reed asked softly, still watching her, unblinking.

"I have not met every Vulcan," T'Pol replied, peppering her voice with curtness and holding Reed's steady gaze with her own.

"No," Reed replied after a moment and seemingly turned his attention back to his hands, finally turning off the acrid smelling water. "I suppose not. I'll see you back at the flat, T'Pol. I'll finish tidying up here."

"Very well," said T'Pol, more than grateful to leave this room now, and what was left of Flael.

* * *

Malcolm Reed had a problem.

He pondered it now as he prowled through the smoky, putrid streets. His hands rested in his jacket pockets, each around a the handle of a small blade laced with yet another very particular chemical. Colorless and barely scented, if it were to get under his skin, he would likely spend the week with a nasty case of hives. It was worth the risk though, because the slightest nick of either blade would stop the heart of a local in under a minute. Perhaps the various street dwellers had a sixth sense for such things, because they left him alone.

But his other problem was a big one: T'Pol had lied.

After learning of her V'Shar associations, Malcolm had been initially cautious but optimistic, especially when some careful probing of his contacts had suggested that she had signed up for that… group… of her own accord, and not at their behest.

It had been more than likely that the investigation would lead them back to Vulcan, for kvo'ratt were Vulcan vermin after all, and T'Pol might have been useful. But then, quite unexpectedly, just when his suspicions that she would be useful had proved true, her former handler had been named and she had lied right to his face.

Or rather, carefully not lied.

And now he had a decision to make. His expertise in explosives had come as no great surprise to his former crew mates, but they no doubt would have found his other hobby astonishing. On the surface, explosives and poison appeared to have nothing in common, but Malcolm found them to be in pleasing concordance. Small, unassuming substances that could wreak havoc on a much larger scale. Pressure waves tearing flesh apart, biochemical derangements turning organs to slurry.

He had quite a collection with him, and had his former employers not provided him with such, he had the skills to produce them from scratch. Including more than one toxin which was harmless to humans, but deadly to Vulcans. Easily administered a hundred ways… but instinct stayed his hand. Some deep impulse told him that she could still be useful.

But he would watch her.

* * *

"Tea."

It wasn't much of a speech, but Trip rarely spoke unnecessarily these days, despite the fact that his kvo'ratt damaged vocal cords had been healed by now, and so T'Pol added the word to the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Thank you," she said softly: after the disagreeable odors of the warehouse and of the streets, the tea's pleasant olfactory bouquet was calming. The tea, and the Human: this human.

"You okay? You look exhausted," Trip rasped softly, sitting down beside her. "Things go bad with Flael?"

"We got a name," T'Pol replied simply.

"Yeah, you told me already. Norik." Trip said the name as if it tasted bad, then heavily closed his eyes.

Something about his face like that, eyes closed, contorted, catapulted T'Pol back in her memory. Back to encountering Reed and Trip in Enterprise's corridor, Trip already paralyzed with venom, Reed ailing, both being swarmed by her childhood nightmares brought to life.

Kvo'ratt.

"Get him to SickBay! He's dying..." Reed had lisped frantically when he saw her even as his leg muscles gave way underneath him.

And T'Pol had scooped up Commander Tucker and had run to SickBay. It was a distressingly long time before she had collected herself enough to send someone to assist Reed, who had fortunately survived regardless. It had been as if her mind had snagged on that word... dying... and had refused to unsnag until Commander Tucker was in the hands of the doctor.

Dying… dying… dying… it had tolled in her mind with each footfall. But he'd lived.

And they'd shared a night watch, in those long days awaiting the Vulcan cruiser, T'Karad, and shared more than that in the dark, for he'd entered her body, and she had entered his mind, quite unexpectedly so... yet T'Pol regretted nothing of that night.

"I dream about you all the time now," said Trip, as she sipped her tea. "I can talk to you, and it's all white."

T'Pol started at that: she hadn't known that such things could happen with a Human.

* * *

Reed was taking his sweet time getting back, thought Archer, quite moodily, as he shoveled some of the unappetizing local gruel into his mouth.

T'Pol and Trip had long ago and none too subtly disappeared into the adjacent room, leaving Archer to brood alone. The walls were thin.

Slightly sullenly, Archer forced himself to focus on the name - Norik of Vulcan.

T'Pol had had little to say of that character: Minister for Agriculture.

Flesh eating murder-bugs were agriculture now, he supposed. Still, **_Minister_**.

What were they getting themselves into here? He'd known it might be a Vulcan responsible, had suspected as much, in fact, but a minister of the High Command? As much as he had ground his teeth over Vulcan delays and interference, he'd never imagined that they would… he was a rogue surely, this Norik. He must be. The High Command had certainly been willing to moan, to complain, to counsel delay rather than set the Enterprise free to roam about at will, but… to murder a third of his crew? Even despite what they had cost his father, Archer Couldn't believe that of Vulcans.

No, this Norik must be some sort of radical. He must have acted alone.

With little else to do, Archer conjured up a generic Vulcan face for Norik in his imagination and imagined punching it over and over again, until perhaps two hours later, Reed finally rolled up.

"You took your time," Archer grumbled.

Reed appeared preoccupied with the noises emanating from the next room and so it took him a moment to reply.

"Sorry, sir."

Archer didn't bother to correct him, and said, "You've sent Flael on his way?"

Reed nodded slowly, sliding into a chair with his own bowl of gruel, which he'd not even bothered to heat. "Yes, sir. I don't think he'll surface for a while."

* * *

Norik.

Trip breathed the name silently into the darkness. T'Pol lay beside him, warming the right side of his body with her astonishing warmth. She was only feigning sleep, although Trip was not sure how he knew this was true. Her breath on his neck was perfectly regular, regular also the rise and fall of her breasts against his side.

And yet her mind was busy and he could sense it.

Images of the lost swirled around him in the quiet. Hoshi Sato nattering away in some impossible language. Her extraordinary mind had withered and died for nothing. Michael Rostov's quick hands and goofy smile, devoured. For nothing.

He lifted his right hand, curled around T'Pol's waist and ran it along the alien contours of her spine. This tickled her like hell, he knew and he smiled at the discipline which it must have taken her to feign sleep regardless. He kissed her then, and she pretended to wake. The feel of the other's skin banished both of their ghosts for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been more than twenty five hours since Flael had disgorged the name of her former mentor, yet T'Pol found herself no more able to integrate this information into her view of the man she had been when she had first heard it.

"You're lying," she'd hissed, driving her fingers into Flael's neck.

Yet even when the following ten minutes had suggested deception on Flael's part was unlikely… that still felt like the most logical explanation. Certainly, Norik had ordered death, from time to time, distasteful as that might be. Such things were necessary at times. But murdering nearly three dozen humans for no discernible reason was surely both beneath him, and beyond him.

"It is when we are forced to end life, that we must revere it most," he'd said to her in consolation, after one of her early kills. This from a man who chose to eat only the produce of plants which would survive harvest, "…and hope that from such reverence, life will bear fruit again."

Unsettled by her frustration, T'Pol returned her attention to the slightly less irritating argument between Reed and Archer, ongoing now for nearly half an hour. It was clear that their hunt required that they travel to Vulcan now… all paths led that way. Archer was insistent that they should attempt to do this covertly, while Reed was insistent that smuggling themselves onto Vulcan would be not only unnecessary, but more importantly, virtually impossible. Reed was correct, but not for the reasons he assumed. If Norik truly WAS involved in this nasty business, then they would be unable to so much as purchase a bolt of Traxian silk without his knowledge. Norik was that good.

"I don't see why you're not even willing to TRY," said a red-faced Archer, blustering at Reed, and wishing for the thousandth time since this entire mission began, that he still had the power of rank over Reed.

"Because it is virtually impossible to do so, and when we are INEVITABLY detected attempting to enter Vulcan illegally, we'll have no deniability at all," said Reed, his patience at an end. "Listen to me. I don't tell you how to captain a ship, don't tell me how best to circumvent security."

The unproductive back and forth between Reed & Archer was insufficient to hold T'Pol's attention, so instead of watching the argument, she shifted her attention to the inexplicably more fascinating spectacle of watching Trip watch a fight on the video monitor. She watched his contemplative blue eyes shift from one combatant to the other, watched for the moments when a corner of his mouth would almost imperceptibly quirk. 73% of such quirks were the left corner of his mouth, too many quirks for random chance, and she let her mind conjure hypothesis after hypothesis as to why. Once or twice he drummed his fingers and those gentle taps somehow resonated over the distant sound of shouting men, and she caught herself breathing deeply in time to this rhythm, and in breathing deeply, scenting her mate…

At last, Reed prevailed in his argument, and Archer conceded defeat. The four were all now experts on Vulcan immigration and quarantine procedures, and they all knew now exactly how difficult it must have been to smuggle those engineered Kvo'ratt into Enterprise's supply crates. They all knew how much harder still it would be to get three humans onto Vulcan undetected, and they all silently contemplated various plans in their minds, in preparation for bringing them up for debate.

"Wedding guests," said T'Pol, the first to speak, with a logical plan in mind. "It is time for my wedding to Koss, and as my former shipmates, I will invite you to witness this event."

Archer blinked at her stupidly. "T'Pol, you want to get married? Who the hell is Koss?"

"My betrothed," T'Pol replied plainly. "And no. I do not wish to marry Koss. But it is a serviceable explanation for your journey to Vulcan."

"I don't know," said Archer glancing at Trip. "We have all been asked to make sacrifices for this mission, but modern marriage seems like too high a price to pay."

T'Pol caught a glimpse of Reed rolling his eyes, and privately agreed with the man… before this whole thing was through they'd likely be wading through green Vulcan blood... Then she heard Trip chuckle, and saw him make eye contact with Archer, and both Reed and T'Pol realized that the captain had just made a joke. Wonderful.

* * *

Archer stared resolutely at the gruel he was reluctantly consuming, for eating was too generous a word for this slop. Archer's grim mood was due partly to his exasperating dustup with Reed earlier, and partly to the noises coming from the next room, where Trip and T'Pol had secluded themselves off once again, noises made no easier to bear by the knowledge that T'Pol was apparently engaged to another man.

Reed, for his part, seemed entirely collected. He was seated across from Archer and shoveling the gruel mechanically into his mouth, as though its nauseating taste was somehow irrelevant. Instead he seemed thoroughly fascinated with whatever he was reading. Archer watched as the man's normally impassive face was animated slightly by a furrowed brow as Reed was lost in thought, and Archer watched as Reed appeared to scroll back and forth several times, in order to reread something he had read before, as the man furiously cross-referenced his facts.

What could be so terribly fascinating? Archer wondered.

Perhaps feeling Archer's eyes upon him, Reed rose to his feet abruptly, wiping his hands absently on his trousers.

"I need some air," said Reed, giving Archer a congenial nod before abruptly walking from the apartment.

To Archer's surprise, and completely contrary to Reed's usually careful habits, he'd forgotten to either stow or lock the PADD he had been reading before doing so. Almost out of habit Archer reached out to lock the PADD when at the last minute he noticed the tell-tale shimmering blue virtual watermark of a top secret Starfleet Intelligence Memo.

"How the hell did he get his hands on this?" Archer wondered aloud, carefully picking up the PADD with a quick glance over his shoulder toward the apartment door.

It was genuine, all right, Archer noted with some fascination. The security clearance was well above Reed's former level, hell, it was far above Archer's former level.

Former level, he reminded himself harshly. Currently, Archer wasn't entitled to so much as Starfleet issued paperclips.

Weirdly, this was almost enough to stop him. Like a phantom limb, his old respect for classified information, for the chain of command, asserted itself just for a moment in this dingy, vermin infested apartment on Verex III. For all he'd just argued for over an hour, that the four of them attempt to arrive on Vulcan in the 22nd century equivalent of an empty whiskey barrel, he was suddenly compelled to leave all of this secret agent shit to Reed. And T'Pol. He suddenly wanted very badly to take Trip with him, and go the hell home.

He nearly put the PADD down. And yet…

With a sigh, and carefully noting Reed's place, so he could leave the PADD as he'd found it, Archer scrolled up to the top of the Memo, sharply taking a breath when he read the subject line…

 _ **26753/378/49 Memo re: Risk management report and an assessment for the potential of Vulcan mind probes to implant suggestions, compulsions and behaviors in Human subjects, during sexual intercourse.**_

* * *

Lurking in the loathsome, foul-smelling corridor outside the apartment, Reed discreetly covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief and gave Archer fifteen minutes to read the entire memo, a few times over.


	6. Chapter 6

Malcolm had not particularly expected to enjoy T'Pol's wedding, and he didn't, although the affair struck him as oddly familiar. Perhaps it was the way in which absolutely no one seemed happy. Koss, the bridegroom, and T'Les - T'Pol's admittedly striking mother - wore amusingly similar expressions of slight irritation at the presence of the human interlopers, as if T'Pol had insisted on inviting three mangy stray Seh'lat to witness the ceremony, and on top of all that, T'Pol was about as far from a blushing bride as it was possible to be, while Archer's Victorian era chivalry was clearly acting up, and Trip was brooding darkly.

Yes, definitely familiar, thought Malcolm. Throw in a bridal pregnancy and a drunk uncle, and you'll have an uncanny recreation of several Reed family weddings which had taken place in the last few decades.

"And then there's me," whispered Reed, darkly amused at the thought.

He was doing his best to be a good wedding guest, but this goal was naturally complicated by the unfamiliar culture, and further complicated by his plans to murder the bride and frame the bridegroom.

 _Quite_ the failure of etiquette, that. His mother would be _APPALLED_ with him.

"What the hell are you smiling at?" Trip murmured darkly, the man seated to Malcolm's left side.

Malcolm shrugged, and said, "I like weddings. Always have."

* * *

"Lovely wedding, huh?" said Archer weakly, handing Trip a cup of some godawful tea, which T'Les had handed Archer not long past, in a vain attempt to stop the former starship captain from commenting yet again, on the beauty of the bride.

Yet after a single taste of the blackweed tea, Archer made his way to Trip's side and handed him the tea, as if meant for him from the start. Seeing Trip taste the tea and grimace, Archer congratulated himself silently for his cunning, even more so when he saw Trip looking desperately round him for a place to set down the cup, or discard the tea.

For his part, Trip thought T'Pol made an appalling bride, for Koss, though it was all he could do to keep from ripping the wedding garments right off her body. THEN she'd look glorious!

Trip had watched a lot of movies. He liked movies. He liked that moment in movies where somebody stops a wedding and declared the proceedings a sham. He had not PLANNED to do anything like that. Not exactly. But he had found himself darkly ruminating on those scenes all day, playing them through his mind, and fighting the urge to recreate such a scene in the present.

That is UNTIL Archer had pulled him aside that morning. His long-time friend, and short-time Captain, had drawn him into a small alcove, walled by paper screens painted with Leviathan-like monsters, and then Jon had said nothing for nearly a full minute, while studying Trip silently.

Eventually, Trip's impatience had got the better of him, and he said, "What's up?"

"You know, what you and T'Pol are doing, who you sleep with is your own concern, Trip…" said Archer, clearly uncomfortable, yet despite that discomfort the man continued speaking, meaning to get his concerns out in one shot.

Trip had arched his eyebrows at first, assuming that this would be some sort of lecture on the inadvisability of sleeping with a fellow member of a covert ops team. It was not as though he hadn't noticed Reed and Archer's disapproval. He just didn't care, and when Archer had continued speaking, Trip wasn't even listening at first, instead devoting his attention towards composing a righteous "mind your own damn business" take down. At some point though, the words 'classified' and 'mind control' had leaked through and he'd then given Archer his full attention.

"…so I'm just saying, be careful," Archer finished lamely. "I know T'Pol and I got off to a rocky start, and I also know that things got better between us in the past year or so. So, I don't know that T'Pol is a threat, but I don't know that she isn't. Her loyalties to her Vulcan superiors may well outweigh her loyalty to us in this matter. Just keep your eyes open, that's all I'm saying."

There were no mirrors handy in the alcove, only delicately painted sea serpents, but Trip did not need a mirror to know that his face was a burning red.

"Be careful," said Trip, flatly. "You're telling me to be careful."

"Yeah, be careful," said Archer. "That's all I'm saying."

"What do you suggest?" said Trip. "A tin foil hat? Some sort of mind condom?"

"Hell, you're the engineer, Trip, so I'll leave it up to you," said Archer, a weak smile on his face, for Trip's distress was clear, and seeing that gave Archer no pleasure. "Look, you know enough about Section 31 to know that they're not fools, and I think we both know that Reed is mixed up with them somehow by now. So, if Section 31 considers this possibility serious enough to pass on this warning, the threat is real."

Trip didn't want to believe that of T'Pol… he really, really didn't, but he'd also felt Malcolm watching her ever so discreetly the past week or so, watching her so discreetly that Trip couldn't even put his finger on it. It was just a feeling. What's more, he recalled T'Pol's admission that she used to be a member of the V'Shar, the semi-clandestine Vulcan agency tasked with protecting Vulcan, and Vulcan's interests in space, and Trip had heard enough about the things which the V'Shar would do in furtherance of it's mission… a tiny bit of manipulation to protect Vulcan interests might seem a small enough thing to T'Pol at this time.

Hell, thought Trip, this kind of thing is the V'Shar's bread and butter. Jon was certain all along that she was a spy planted in our midst, and now both Malcolm and StarFleet Intelligence believe such things likely.

But most damning of all was the fact that he and T'Pol had shared some thoughts in common, and he'd visited that white space of hers, which meant that their minds were linked somehow, and that did it, that pushed Trip over the edge, so to speak, and forced him to face the harsh truth.

That BITCH! thought Trip, and a moment later, he spoke the thought aloud.

"Trip…" said Archer.

But Trip had stormed away, silently fuming at the thought of such betrayal from T'Pol, and he'd fumed all through the ceremony, and all through T'Les's traditional tea-based cocktail party after the ceremony. And now it was winding down, Trip wanted to tear T'Pol's robes off and give her a monster grudge fuck, and then forget her, but so far he'd had to content himself with attempting to burn holes in those robes with his eyes.

* * *

Perhaps feeling the heat, T'Pol suddenly announced she needed air and slipped out a sliding door into the serenity garden. Neither T'Les nor Koss moved to join her, and Trip had long ascertained that mother and son-in-law did not particularly care for each other, and yet they now appeared to be bonding in a very unexpected way: namely, a competition to see which of them could induce Jonathan Archer to say the stupidest thing. T'Les was currently streets ahead, but Koss was young, with everything to play for. So when neither Vulcan followed T'Pol, Trip did.

The serenity garden looked stunning. A light breeze coaxed sonorous notes out of enormous, hanging chimes. Intricate patterns had been carefully raked into a fine sand that all but shimmered in the moonlight. And, in the middle of it all, statuesque, stood a siren clad in silk. Trip approached her now, kicking purposely through the delicately sculpted sand: oh, yeah, he was still upset.

"It's your wedding night," he said drawing close to T'Pol and freeing her hair from the robe, and then using the hold to turn her face towards his.

She blinked at him inscrutably. "You are angry."

"Damn right I'm angry," said Trip. "You've been messing around in my head!"

Though he had no proof at all that Archer's concerns were true, Trip didn't care, hurling the accusation at T'Pol anyway: he'd felt her in his mind, and T'Pol's slight flinch at his last sentence was as good as an admission of guilt.

"Yes, you are right. I am sorry," she replied softly. "It was not intentional."

"You brainwashed me UNINTENTIONALLY?"

T'Pol frowned a little, but nodded, and said, "Brainwashed? It pains me that you see it that way… Still, I apologize. But the Bon—"

"Bullshit," Trip murmured. "That's why I can't get you out of my head, isn't it?"

To those words, T'Pol had nothing in reply, but the quiver of her lips, so close to his own, said volumes.

"It's your wedding night," he said again. "Shouldn't you be with Koss?"

T'Pol lowered her gaze. "I will join him later. There is a ceremony which involves sipping pre-infused tea, poured from an ancient vessel."

"That ugly thing in the hall?"

T'Pol frowned, and said, "No. The vessel in question is stored privately, in Koss's room."

"Koss' room is on the west side of the house, right?"

"Is there something you want of me, Mr. Tucker?" said T'Pol. "It is, as you have pointed out, my wedding night, and I have ceremonial tea to drink."

She pulled away from him a little, so Trip tightened his grip on her hair and pulled her closer to him. Close enough for T'Pol to feel the man's excitement, and make a logical deduction as to what in particular he wanted of her...

"If you're thirsty," he growled, "I can satisfy your thirst. You should have a little fun on your wedding night, T'Pol. Koss doesn't look fun."

"I grow weary of your verbal games, Commander Tucker," said T'Pol. "I understand that you are not pleased that our mission required that I marry Koss, but that fact can not be changed. Now, if there is something that you want of me, you should take it. We are private here."

With that, Trip pressed T'Pol down to the sand, ruining was little remained of the shimmering patterns raked into the sand, and weighted the Vulcan down with his body, pushing aside the nearby sand rake as he did so.

T'Pol's face assumed a neutral expression, though her eyes were intensely watchful, and that even as her body pressed against Trip's and conformed her shape to his.

"I have had plenty of THIS sort of fun before, Commander," said T'Pol. "I hope you can do better than this."

"You be the judge, T'Pol," said Trip, whispering darkly in T'Pol's ear, and then reached down, and turned T'Pol over, onto her stomach, in order to run his hands up her buttocks, on the way to freeing the Vulcan of her dress, at least to some degree.


	7. Chapter 7

Malcolm had circulated round the room and moved through the party once the ceremony had been concluded, and for once, despite his initial misgivings, the lieutenant actually blended well here, for the Vulcans took his personal reserve as quite appropriate, and his responses pleasingly laconic in comparison to those of Archer and so those Vulcans who wished to converse with Humans, zeroed in on Malcolm.

All this attention though, did not keep Malcolm from seeing Trip returning to the party with a slight smile of satisfaction, which Malcolm unfortunately had reason to now recognize as a sign that he'd recently been intimate with T'Pol, and when T'Pol returned to the party in a dress much less elaborate than her wedding gown, well, Malcolm was no fool. Still, he'd tried to nip this whole thing with T'Pol in the bud by allowing Archer to see Section 31's concerns, but apparently that wasn't enough to cause Trip to end things with T'Pol, at least until this whole thing was over.

Even that's not enough, thought Malcolm. Pulling back is not enough. If T'Pol's been lying to us this whole time about Norik, and if she can't be trusted than she's a fucking liability, and I won't stand for that.

Just then, Malcolm felt someone approaching, and to his surprise it was T'Pol.

"A beautiful wedding, T'Pol," said Malcolm, out of politeness.

T'Pol gave a slight wave of the hand to indicate that it was of no account, and said, "We should talk, Mr. Reed. In private."

"All right," said Malcolm, watching T'Pol closely. "Where?"

"Follow me," said T'Pol.

She led the man to the front yard, which had been festively lit, and a few tables laid out for guests who cared to spend time watching the stars, but it was a bit chilly for that, by Vulcan sensibilities, though Malcolm found the slight chill bracing. It was there that T'Pol gestured that Malcolm might sit, and then joined him. Expecting the possibility of foul play initially, Malcolm relaxed somewhat, for they were in full view of fifty guests, through the house's large windows.

"So?" said Malcolm.

"When I said I did not know Norik, I was not telling the truth, Mr. Reed," said T'Pol.

"Go on," said Malcolm, not sure where T'Pol meant to take the conversation, but pleasantly surprised by her admission: perhaps she was no traitor.

"Yes," said T'Pol. "Well, Norik was my superior at one time, Mr. Reed. I was one of his operatives."

"I see," said Malcolm. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Truthfully," said T'Pol, "I did not believe, and I still do not believe that Norik could be mixed up in something like this nasty kvo'ratt business. I had hoped to speak to the man privately in person before we acted, and ask about his involvement in this matter, if any, and the reason for it all."

"I understand," said Malcolm with a nod. "So why tell me now?"

"It occurred to me that in the unlikely event that Norik is indeed mixed up in this," said T'Pol, "we would all be in danger. He is quite capable, and I have no right to keep such information from you, in that case. I apologize for not telling all of you of my acquaintance with Norik. I'll speak of it with Mr. Archer tomorrow. You speak with Trip."

"All right," said Malcolm, relieved that T'Pol had come through after all: she might lying still, but her confession gave her a bit more credibility in Malcolm's eyes.

The rest of the night was anti-climactic. Though custom usually dictated that T'Pol follow Koss to her mate's house, T'Pol had the option of beginning her marriage with a time of quiet contemplation on her new state and the responsibilities which came along with it, and T'Pol made use of that option, to her mother's open disapproval, but then T'Les had long hoped that her daughter might settle down and live a proper Vulcan life, instead of serving with the V'Shar, or worse yet, wasting her time on a Human starship. Still, T'Pol was T'Pol…

In any case, T'Les' opinions of T'Pol's obstinate nature was irrelevant to the four conspirators for they had a tough choice to make.

The Vulcan they were after, Norik, was after all a member of the High Command, and interfering with him, questioning him under duress, torturing him, killing him, any and all of these things would carry a heavy penalty, either death, or long imprisonment and then a mind wipe upon release. What's more, all they had to implicate Norik in this whole matter was the word of a Denobulan, now dead… Although T'Pol believed that the Denobulan had been speaking truth, that belief would not hold up in a court of law, nor in their conscience, if Norik was truly innocent, and they harmed Norik in order to force him to make a confession to a crime in which he had no part at all.

What's more, T'Pol had made it clear to the rest that Norik was no fool, as he breathed subterfuge as a remnant of his long career spent with the V'Shar, and he was well guarded as a member of the High Command, and so T'Pol suggested that they allow her to make contact with Norik: he would make time for her, as a courtesy to their common service to the V'Shar, as a kindness for their past relationship in which Norik had acted as a mentor to T'Pol.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" said Archer. "You think Norik will be honest with you?"

"Not necessarily," said T'Pol, "though I hope so. However, I will have the best chance to spot subterfuge if Norik offers me such. I know Norik as well as any."

"I don't like it," said Trip, his slightly raspy voice sounding quite sexy to T'Pol. "If T'Pol speaks to him about this matter, Norik will be forewarned."

"I assure you, Mr. Tucker," said T'Pol, "If Norik was involved in this matter, then he is aware that former members of the Enterprise are on Vulcan now, and he is having us watched. I told you, he is competent."

"You're just guessing here, T'Pol," said Trip.

"I've known the man for eleven years," said T'Pol, looking at each man there, "and I am giving you my opinion that the best way to approach Norik is to speak with him first. To resort to violence without any proof of his guilt would be a mistake."

"I agree," said Archer, for no matter the changes in them all since the deaths of thirteen of his crewmen at the hands of those genetically modified horrors, he still held to a code of honor, and Norik deserved a chance to speak of his innocence, if such was the case.

"Speaking to the man seems the proper course," said Malcolm slowly, after a moment's thought.

"Fine," said Trip, "but we're making a mistake that's gonna come bite us in the ass, sooner or later."

"Such is the nature of life, Mr. Tucker," said T'Pol, glad that logic had ruled the day. "Now, a shuttle can see us to the capital city in under an hour. I will contact Norik's office, ask for an appointment. Excuse me."

Twenty minutes later, T'Pol returned, and said, "I have an appointment with Norik two days from now."

Archer nodded, Trip sighed, and Malcolm looked lost in thought.

They spoke then for another half hour, then Trip & T'Pol excused themselves so that T'Pol might speak to Trip, Archer went to sleep, and Malcolm retired to the serenity garden in the back of the house, where he activated an unusual comm unit given him by a man named Harris, when Malcolm had sought the man's help, in avenging the deaths on the Enterprise.

The comm unit reached out, and made a connection with one of a half dozen StarFleet vessels in Vulcan orbit, then loaded Malcolm's encrypted message for Harris into the buffer, and would deliver it to Harris, piggybacking on the next ship to Earth transmission without revealing it's presence to any.

* * *

"So, you have something to say to me?" said Trip, looking down at T'Pol, who had knelt in front of the coffee table in her room: things had been tense between them in the hours since Archer had told Trip of the contents of Malcolm's PADD unit.

"Please, Trip," said T'Pol, gesturing that Trip should kneel or sit across the table from her.

With a sigh, Trip lowered himself to the floor, and knelt, facing T'Pol and waited for T'Pol to speak.

"Yes, well," said T'Pol, "As I was trying to say earlier—"

"Just tell me this. Did someone put you up to it? Are you obeying orders?" said Trip, quite agitated now. "Was any of it, any of what happened between us real?"

"Someone put me up to it? Obeying orders?" said T'Pol, quite confused now. "Trip, what are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about!" said Trip. "You admitted as much just a few hours ago. I know, T'Pol. I know everything."

"What do you know, Trip?" said T'Pol, looking at Trip inquisitively, for it was clear that their thoughts were not syncing up. "Tell me."

Over the course of a minute, Trip told T'Pol of Archer's words, and told T'Pol that the source of those concerns was something read on Malcolm's PADD unit.

"Ok," said T'Pol, understanding now. "I will grant you that such things might be done, though rarely so. The V'Shar might order it, if the need is great, but I assure you that nothing of that nature passed between us."

"But you admitted it!" said Trip.

"I admitted no such thing, Trip," said T'Pol, "and that's not something for which I was apologizing."

"Than what?" said Trip.

T'Pol took a deep breath to calm herself, and gave a lenghty, and quite adequate explanation of the psychic Bond formed between mates, and its implications. Trip had remained silent the entire time during which T'Pol had made her explanation, and he remained silent even after T'Pol had fallen silent, and T'Pol remained silent as well, respecting the man's need to consider the nature of her words.

Finally, Trip said, "So you and I are linked by this Bond, mentally and spiritually."

"Correct."

"And you were not manipulating me in any way?" said Trip. "You did not generate my feelings for you, or heighten them through this Bond?"

"No, Trip," said T'Pol. "The Bond can not be used like that. It can not be forced upon one's mate. Both mates must willingly allow the ties between them to form and bind them together, even if subconsciously. The Bond can not be manipulated in any way. It is pure. It is what you Humans call love."

"I see," said Trip.

"Do you believe me?" said T'Pol, studying the man closely.

"Yes."

"And how do you feel about being mated to me, Trip?"

Trip thought back to all the things they'd gone through together in the time since they'd first met, the close calls they'd had that could have easily ended with one, or both of them dead, of all the private moments they'd shared…

He thought off all those things, and though he'd never have imagined that he'd have a Vulcan mate one day, Trip smiled broadly, and said, "I feel good, T'Pol. I feel great!"

"Truly?"

"Yep," said Trip, still smiling. "It seems I have a Vulcan wife."

"You do," said T'Pol, quite relieved at Trip's acceptance of what must be.

"Does your mom know?" said Trip.

"Oh, no," said T'Pol. "Vulcan though she is, she will blow her top when she finds out."

"What about Koss?" said Trip.

"The wedding is invalid in case of a Bond to another," said T'Pol. "I will announce it when this is all over, and ask forgiveness of Koss."

"It will have to be a hell of an apology," said Trip. "Vulcan or not, Koss will be pissed."

"You have a talent for understatement, Mr. Tucker," said T'Pol.


	8. Chapter 8

**Act 2: Answers**

* * *

The day after T'Pol's wedding was purposely spent doing touristy things, just in case they were being watched, and so Trip, Jon & Malcolm followed T'Pol to two museums, took some time for lunch, after which T'Pol left them for a while in order to spend some time with her mother, but only after promising to return in the evening and take them all out to a local reading of Vulcan epic poetry. That a proper recitation took five hours or so was enough to put Trip off the plan, but T'Pol convinced him, convinced them all, that they'd find it worthwhile, and in any case, it was something they might do if they were on Vulcan merely to absorb the local planetary culture, and so they all reluctantly agreed.

When it came down to it though, only Jon and Trip could accompany T'Pol to that reading, as Malcolm became violently ill, hurling the contents of his lunch into the toilet bowl. Still, the man was a trooper, and insisted they follow through on their plans, while he rested in his room, and they were all persuaded to do so, though Trip, suspicious of Malcolm's sudden illness was not persuaded until he'd verified the truth of Malcolm's illness, even going as far as to inspect the man's toilet for the 'supposed' vomit. Eventually though, they departed the hotel, leaving Malcolm behind.

Moments after the others had left Malcolm behind, the man bounced out of his bed, and began dressing, only slightly annoyed that he'd had to dump the entire contents of his stomach in order to sell the narrative of his illness to the others. No matter, if he succeeded, they'd understand… if he failed, well, the odds were that his corpse would be unceremoniously loaded into a shuttle and dumped far outside the city to feed some type of Vulcan scavenger, this entire Norik business no longer his concern.

Dressed now, and standing by a window, Malcolm watched his former shipmates enter a hire-car which would take them to the train station, where a mag-lev train would whisk them to their final destination. For himself, Malcolm took his own hire-car to the nearby spaceport, where he bought a shuttle ticket for the capital city: such shuttles made the trip day and night, and Malcolm reached his destination, even before the others reached theirs in the slower train, but then they were also enjoying the ride. He went with a purpose.

Harris had gotten in touch with Malcolm earlier in the day, by the same mechanism he'd used to send his initial message to Harris, as Harris had piggybacked his hidden and encrypted message to Malcolm in the same manner. Harris' message made it clear that arrangements had been made between Section 31 and the V'Shar, and Harris included a comm number to his Vulcan contacts, already in the capital city.

You'd better be sure about this, stated the last part of Harris' message. This thing goes bad, you'll be dead by dawn.

"Tell me about it," had said Malcolm aloud, to no one in particular. "It's not my first dance, Harris."

Which all brought me to this point, thought Malcolm, focusing now on the situation at hand, and some twenty minutes later he saw the tell tale running lights of a swiftly approaching shuttle coming in for a landing. Malcolm took this opportunity to make a call, then set his PADD unit down on the coffee table.

* * *

Harris set down his comm unit, after having looked at the current time of Vulcan's capital city for the fourth time, and then he looked across the table to Sevek, his V'Shar contact, and said, "I appreciate your help in this matter, Sevek. I realize taking on a member of the High Command, on our behalf, is probably not to your liking."

"What happened aboard the Enterprise was clearly an act of war, Harris," said Sevek, "and if a member of the High Command has played a role in that attack, the matter will be investigated thoroughly, by any means necessary. We'll begin with this play of your man, Reed, but if we need to take it further, we will, and if Norik is guilty… action will be taken. Support for Vulcan participation in this matter comes from the Director of the V'Shar. No one is playing games here, Harris."

"Good enough," said Harris. "Well, we'll see what comes of it soon enough."

Sevek nodded, and then excused himself in order to deal with some personal calls.

* * *

Norik, honored member of Vulcan society and one of the five esteemed members of the High Command, stepped out of his shuttle, which had landed on the East side of his estate, three miles from his mansion. He was preceded off the shuttle by two of his bodyguards, and followed off the shuttle by two others, and moments later, Norik stepped into a waiting vehicle which made its way along a winding road here for just this purpose, and after a short drive the vehicle pulled up in front of Norik's main residence, where members of the security team which guarded this property saluted the man as he passed them to enter the mansion. He ignored them all.

As large as the place was, the main floor of Norik's mansion was still mostly ceremonial, a place to impress his guests with Norik's elegant taste and bludgeon them with subtle reminders of his deep purse, but it was not truly decorated for comfort, so Norik headed to the second story, still accompanied by his four bodyguards, each of the four a highly trained and capable opponent for any that might try to harm Norik. That being said, it was unheard of, that one of the five members of the Vulcan High Command might be a target for foul play - certainly it had never happened before so far as the Vulcan public knew, and it would be an act of madness that would carry the direst of consequences, but still, Norik saw no harm in taking precautions.

So it was that one of these guards, moving through the mansion ahead of Norik, detected Malcolm… not that the Human was making any effort at concealment, as he sat there on one of Norik's fine couches, sipping the Vulcan's finest booze.

"Intruder," said the guard calmly, even as he drew his phaser and aimed it squarely at Malcolm, for he was certain that this Human was not one of Norik's guests, nor had the security detail mentioned any visitors.

The guard's word was relayed through his comm unit, to his fellows, as well as the security team outside, and the entire place was now locked down. Two of Norik's guards pressed the Vulcan back into a safe room and behind a steel door, prepared to die there as part of Norik's protection, while the third Vulcan joined the guard who'd drawn aim on Malcolm. This whole time, the Human kept calmly sipping Norik's hundred year old rislin.

"Who are you?" said the guard who'd first come upon Malcolm, in English.

"See that PADD unit on the coffee table?" said Malcolm. "There's only one comm number stored in memory. Have Norik contact that number."

Without wasting time on further talk, the late come guard handcuffed Malcolm to the ornate steel frame of the couch, while the first guard lowered his phaser, but did not slacken his vigilance in the least. The guard with the PADD unit then scanned it with one of his own devices, and found nothing dangerous to Norik: no surface toxins, no explosives, no unusual mechanisms, so he took the PADD unit back to Norik in the safe room. Moments later, Norik joined Malcolm, his guards with him, and took station a few feet away from Malcolm, all five Vulcans watching Malcolm like hawks.

"How do you come to have my daughter and her children in your custody?" said Norik, for he'd called the number directed, to see an image of his daughter and her four children, all seated on a couch, the children watching a large video screen which played a children's educational video, all of them flanked by three nondescript Vulcans. "And how did you get Vulcans to aid you in this mad scheme of yours?"

"I'll ask the questions around here, Norik. Even if you force a mind meld on me now, the clock began ticking as soon as I saw your shuttle coming in for a landing. Unless I call back that number, quite soon, your daughter and your grandchildren will be killed. What's more, you have a large family, if the four we have now are not incentive enough," said Malcolm, his threat clear.

To Norik, the thought that someone would harm his family was beyond the pale of reason, but he was dealing here with a Human, and they could be… unpredictable. Worse yet, the Vulcan involvement hinted at two possibilities, both unsavory. One, the Human had hired a number of criminals from the small, but harsh, criminal Vulcan underground, or else, perhaps the shadow side of the V'Shar was mixed up in all this, and as a former operative, Norik knew that that meant. Personally, he rather hoped it was a matter of criminal involvement: they could be reasoned with, better than the shadows in the V'Shar.

The V'Shar, the Vulcan Security Directorate, had two aspects. The public aspect, and the largest part of the V'Shar, was the one of which all Vulcans could take pride, for it protected Vulcan and it's people, at home and abroad. The shadow aspect of the V'Shar was much smaller in size, perhaps 1/20th the size of the rest of the directorate… it was this side of the V'Shar which handled missions which benefited Vulcan, and yet would likely not find general acceptance with the Vulcan public. And if this Human had Vulcan assistance in this matter, and it was not criminals, then it was the shadows which were rendering him such assistance against a member of the High Command itself, and the thought of that caused Norik much consternation now. Still, he would deal with this obstacle tonight, and deal with what came after, as best he could.

"What do you want?" said Norik, far too disciplined to follow his desires, which were to put the Human to a forced mind meld to ascertain the location of his family, then have him executed by one of his guards.

"I want to inject you with some drugs," said Malcolm, "after which I wish to ask you a series of questions."

Norik would have laughed at that, were it not for the Human's leverage.

"Questions about what, Human?"

"The extent of your involvement with the incident which caused Human deaths aboard the starship Enterprise, Norik," said Malcolm. "The kvo'ratt. I have cause to believe you were involved in that incident. What I don't know, but what I badly want to know, is if you were the main player, or not."

Norik's first instinct was to deny his involvement in the matter, but the Human would not release his family, on his word alone: he would insist on using drugs. What's more, even if Norik told the truth right from the beginning, the Human would still insist on the drugs, in order to verify the truth of his words.

"Very well," said Norik, ignoring the startled looks of his guards. "But you may only question me on that particular topic, nothing else. V'Lek will see to that."

One of the Vulcan guards, a hard faced, middled aged Vulcan nodded to Norik in acceptance of his orders.

"All right," said Malcolm. "Can you trust all of your guards to keep their mouths shut about this matter?"

"Yes," said Norik, contemptuously. "They have been with me for decades."

"Then release me, and let's get started," said Malcolm.

A guard freed Malcolm of his cuffs and then scanned the Human's chemical kit for signs of treachery, while Malcolm made a call to the Vulcans holding Norik's family hostage, and shortly after that Norik was injected with Malcolm's chosen drugs, and the question and answer session began some ten minutes later. Two hours later, Norik was in full command of his senses once more, and Malcolm back in cuffs, and under close observation, pending Norik's permission to leave.

"I trust you got what you came for?" said Norik.

"I did," said Malcolm. "While you were still under I made the call. Your family is freed."

Norik called his daughter to verify that fact, and though he'd truly love to make this Human pay for the events of this evening, Norik knew that harming the man would carry consequences. It was just the way things were done.

"Then get the fuck out," said Norik, angry enough to display some emotion: he knew, given the current political climate, that the confession which the Human had recorded on his PADD unit was enough to see him dismissed from the High Command, and possibly jailed over the entire matter, "and if you ever touch my family again, the kvo'ratt may find their way to Earth."

"If that ever happens," said Malcolm, "your entire bloodline will be wiped out, Norik, and then things will get really nasty for your fellow Vulcans, as your genetically modified kvo'ratt find their way home, though you won't be around to see it. Now, be good enough to have one of your men drop me off in the capital city. Please."

Norik looked at V'Lek, and the Vulcan grabbed Malcolm by the arm in a vise like grip, and hustled him from the mansion, and to the shuttle. Soon after that, they were in the air, and Malcolm headed back for the capital.

"If you ever come around Norik, or his family again, Human," said V'Lek, looking at Malcolm who was riding in the co-pilot's seat, "I'll kill you."

"No worries then," said Malcolm. "If someone comes for him, it will be your own people. Your boss fucked up by involving himself in this matter, and Vulcan had better make things right, if they would count us as allies."


	9. Chapter 9

"And where the hell have you been all night?" said Trip, looking crossly at Malcolm as the former lieutenant entered their shared suite with the morning sun. "I knew this son of a bitch wasn't sick! He just didn't want to go to the poetry reading!"

"Can you blame him?" said Archer, shooting a dark glance T'Pol's way.

The Vulcan sensed something though, and said, "Come, Mr. Reed. Have some coffee and tell us about your night. We were just about to order breakfast."

Malcolm sat, and Trip kept bitching… he'd realllly hated sitting still for five hours, watching a Vulcan with a wooden mask on his face recite poetry for five hours. His voice had been sonorous and the poetry almost musical, but still. Five hours of that crap?!

Finally, T'Pol silenced Trip with what seemed to be one of her looks, but in truth it was something more: an unspoken plea, from mind to mind, which did the trick. Then T'Pol poured Malcolm a coffee, Archer took meal orders from everyone and called the final order in, and then finally everyone turned their attention to Malcolm.

"So?" said Archer.

Malcolm turned on the large wall mounted video display monitor, then synced his PADD unit with the monitor and initiated the playback of the audio/video feed which he'd taken during his interrogation of Norik, just hours earlier.

"That's Norik," said T'Pol, fascinated, for she'd recognized the Vulcan immediately.

"What the hell have you been up to, Malco—" said Archer, but T'Pol shusshed him.

"If we listen, we will learn, Captain," said T'Pol though Archer was no longer her captain, but her logic was unimpeachable, and Archer stilled his questions.

They watched the video feed, though the first twenty minutes was nothing but Malcolm prepping Norik with chemicals, and attaching the bio-feedback device which would provide a second monitor to the Vulcan's responses, for if Norik had specialized training to resist chemical interrogation, the bio-feedback device would reveal mental patterns too orderly to belong to a subject properly softened by the drugs, and even extensive training to beat both drugs and bio-feedback could not conceal that fact from a competent examiner.

Finally Malcolm and Norik got to the heart of the matter.

"Did you have anything to do with the kvo'ratt attack on the Enterprise," said Malcolm on video.

"Yes," said Norik.

"Elaborate," said Malcolm.

"I was asked to have the research labs under my domain create a species of aggressive kvo'ratt through recombinant DNA techniques," said Norik, speaking slowly. "They were to pass cursory observation as typical wild kvo'ratt, while possessing a much more aggressive temperament, as well as a more efficient muscular system which would increase their speed, and their bite."

"What reason were you given, to justify the creation of these creatures?" said Malcolm.

"I was not given a reason."

"And you did not ask for one?" said Malcolm.

"No."

"So why do it?" said Malcolm.

"I could not say no to V'Las," said Norik, and T'Pol gave a slight gasp.

"What?" said Trip, looking at his mate.

Malcolm paused the video playback, and said, "V'Las is the head of the Vulcan High Command, Trip."

T'Pol nodded in agreement with Malcolm's statement, and Malcolm resumed playback of his interrogation. Trouble was, Norik had no way of knowing that which V'Las had not shared with him, and the rest of the interrogation merely confirmed Norik's involvement in the creation of the savage kvo'ratt, and confirmed Norik's guilt.

"That's it," said Malcolm when it was clear that things were wrapping up.

"So what now?" said Archer, looking at Malcolm, for the former captain rightly assumed that Malcolm had a purpose in mind when he conducted this interrogation.

"I've already shared this interrogation data with our people, and I'm told our people will share it with the Director of the V'Shar," said Malcolm. "Once they've discussed the matter, I'll find out what they've decided to do about Norik."

"Well they'd better do 'something'," said Trip, thinking of Rostov, thinking of Hoshi… thinking of all the rest of the people whose lives Norik's compliance had brought to a brutal end. "If they don't, we will. He can't just walk away from what he's done aboard the Enterprise."

"How did you get Norik to agree to this interrogation," said Archer, looking speculatively at Malcolm.

"Some people threatened his family," said Malcolm.

"Threatened how?" said T'Pol.

"Threatened to kill his daughter and grandkids," said Malcolm.

"Jesus," said Archer, bewildered at first, then agitated. "Damn it, Malcolm! That's fucked up! We don't do things like tha—"

"Why don't you stick to captaining starships," said Malcolm, "and leave these things to me."

"You watch your fucking mouth, Reed," said Archer. "You're here as part of our group and I don't think either Trip or T'Pol would agree with such tactics!"

"I don't need any of you to finish this," said Malcolm, his voice cold now. "If you don't like my tactics, why don't you piss off back to Earth."

"Listen, you limey bastard," said Archer, "you're going to rein yourself in, or I'll do it for you! I don't know what the hell you're thinking, doing things this like this, but it's over!"

"It's not over, you pompous fuck!" said Malcolm. "These Vulcans killed Hoshi, and they're going to pay for it! You understand?"

"We all cared about Hoshi, Malcolm," said Archer, "but threatening to kill kids is not the way to go about—"

"I loved her," said Malcolm in a vicious monotone, which silenced Archer, and surprised both Trip and T'Pol, "and nothing I do will bring her back. But I will find out who is responsible for that attack on the Enterprise, and I mean to pay them back, so I want Norik, and I want V'Las, and I want anyone else that had a hand in this! Do you understand? So you'd better fall in line, or you'd best get out of my way. To oppose me would be a mistake."

Archer was about to respond, when T'Pol interrupted.

"We all want the same thing, Mr. Reed," said T'Pol. "Or perhaps mostly the same thing. I'd prefer to bring these people to justice, and I hope the rest of you feel the same, but no matter how things shake out, we should minimize the involvement of innocent civilians."

"It wasn't my first choice, T'Pol," said Malcolm, "but Norik is well protected. I'm competent, but I don't believe I could have overcome his security detail, so I had to apply some pressure on Norik."

"I understand," said T'Pol, who had been involved in some morally questionable activities during her time with the V'Shar, and that statement from T'Pol ended things, at least for now.

* * *

"So," said Harris, in communication with Sevek, his contact officer with the V'Shar. "What has the Director decided?"

By Director, Harris meant the director of the V'Shar, and by decided, Harris meant what had the director decided to do about Norik's involvement in an act of war against StarFleet and Earth.

"The Director has convened a meeting between Norik and the other members of the High Command," said Sevek, "leaving out V'Las, of course. In the normal course of events, V'Las would be charged, with Norik testifying against V'Las for a lessor charge, and then the High Command would dismiss V'Las from his post, after which he'd be subjected to a trial."

"Makes sense," said Harris, "unfortunately—"

"Unfortunately we can not have such a spectacle," said Sevek. "It would poison relations between our peoples for years, and shame the High Command. The three honorable members of the High Command were clear on this fact."

"And so…" said Harris.

"And so I suggest we proceed along this unconventional course," said Sevek. "Let your people deal with V'Las, and we will aid you as needed. In return, order your man to find out what motivated V'Las in this matter. What happens to V'Las after that point is irrelevant… though it would make things tidier if your people made V'Las' passing from this world, seem accidental.

"My man has a talent for the accidental," said Harris, "but none of them will be pleased to find out that Norik gets off scot-free."

"Norik is not getting off, scot-free, as you say," said Sevek. "His fate was decided by the three non-involved members of the High Command. Within a month he will be infected with Jhekok's Syndrome, a disease totally unrelated to your mad-cow disease, yet exhibiting similar symptoms, though of much faster progression. Norik will be dead six months from now. An unsavory end, but one which does least harm to all."

"Good riddance," said Harris. "All right then, I'll wish our people good hunting."

* * *

"I'm surprised you supported Malcolm's actions, back there," said Trip, watching T'Pol slip free of her uniform that night, in preparation for a shower.

"Mr. Reed was correct in assuming that he would fail to defeat Norik's protection," said T'Pol. "I know two of his current bodyguards, and they're quite deadly. They were my instructors while with the V'Shar, and they're accustomed to every form of violence, treachery and deception. I do not know the other two, but I will assume they're just as skilled. Mr. Reed did what he had to do, in threatening Norik's family."

"Yeah," said Trip, drawing closer to T'Pol, "but even so..."

"Furthermore," said T'Pol, "just because he made the threat, does not mean that it would have been carried out. Perhaps he was bluffing, perhaps he was not, but Norik clearly bought the threat, which is what truly matters."

"I guess," said Trip, smiling now, for T'Pol was nude, and standing brazenly for his inspection, both manual and visual.

"Is there something on your mind, Mr. Tucker?" said T'Pol, knowing damned well what was on his mind.

"Nothing but a hot shower," said Trip, "and in the interest of conserving water on a desert planet, I'll join you."

T'Pol sighed wearily and openly rolled her eyes, which caused Trip to laugh, because the feedback from her mind made it clear that T'Pol was quite excited at the prospect, of water conservation.


	10. Chapter 10

**Act 3: Retribution**

* * *

As it turned out, dealing with V'Las was something easily accomplished, aided by several facts:

1) Norik's testimony, verified by mind probe, made it clear that the genetically altered kvo'ratt had been created on V'Las' orders, and that these same kvo'ratt had killed Humans aboard the Enterprise.

2) Whatever V'Las' logic, his logic was faulty and his actions risked alienating an allied species, humiliating the High Command, and lastly, his acts were acts of war. Now the Human StarFleet was no match for the Vulcan Navy, true, but the Andorians would no doubt be quick to extend offers of allegiance and assistance to the Humans if war broke out between Earth and Vulcan, and that was not something the High Command would willingly see happen.

3) Lastly, V'Las' actions were disturbing, and hinted at concealed purposes and alliances, and a mind probe would see those things brought to light.

Accordingly, the four other members of the High Command's executive council made it clear to the Director of the V'Shar, that he was to get to the bottom of this matter in any way he deemed appropriate, and conclude it without embarrassing the High Command. Afterwards, the High Command would make some concessions to the Humans, in order to atone for V'Las' actions, and then elevate a junior member of the High Command to it's executive council of five, and things would return to normal.

So there was no need to play games here with V'Las. His protection detail was formed of V'Shar officers, and those officers were under the purview of the Director of the V'Shar, so when a direct order came down the line that the detail should allow five people through the security net in order to speak with Administrator V'Las, the orders were obeyed.

So it was that V'Las was interrupted in his work, at close to 10AM by three Humans and two Vulcans, to V'Las' surprise and displeasure. Still, V'Las retained enough presence of mind to press a button which would summon both his secretary, and his security detail into the room - to either satisfactorily explain the presence of these intruders into his office, or remove them all.

V'Las watched the intruders for the next few moments, as they spread round his desk in a semi-circle. He recognized none of the Humans, nor the male Vulcan, but the female Vulcan was T'Pol, and her last assignment had been the Human starship, Enterprise, and for the first time, V'Las felt unease - if she was from the Enterprise, it took no great leap of imagination to assume that these Humans were also of the Enterprise.

What the hell is taking Security so long to respond? thought V'Las, for he'd heard no weapons fire, no disturbances at all, and it should not have been possible for these people to pass Security without any effort at all.

"What do you want?" said V'Las brusquely, his left hand moving in the process, in order to come closer to one of the drawers in his desk, a drawer which concealed a phaser.

"We're here to discover your role in the kvo'ratt infestation aboard the Enterprise, V'Las," said the oldest Human present here.

"And you are?" said V'Las.

"Jon Archer, former captain of the Enterprise."

"Well, I am not sure where you got the impression that I had any sort of involvement with that matter," said V'Las, "but you are mistak—"

"We're about to find out, now," said Archer.

"And you?" said V'Las, looking at T'Pol. "You're an officer of the Vulcan Navy, subject to the authority of the High Command. I am the head of the executive branch of the High Command. You're actions are treasonous, T'Pol, and will carry a price."

"If you are indeed innocent of involvement in that matter," said T'Pol, "I will accept any punishment the High Command sees fit to levy against me, Administrator."

"And you?" said V'Las, looking at the male Vulcan.

That Vulcan did not have a chance to answer, for Malcolm drew a phaser and shot V'Las right in the torso, tired of the pointless conversation.

"So let's get to it," said Malcolm.

When V'Las regained consciousness, he found himself restrained to his chair by some bands. What followed next was not pleasant. A physical interrogation under the influence of truth telling drugs and physical pain compliance measures, and then a forced mind meld at the doing of the unknown male Vulcan, and when it was all over, V'Las knew his time as administrator and leader of the High Command was over, for he'd reasoned things out, and realized that the other members of the High Command's executive council and the Director of the V'Shar, stood in support of these actions. He would be lucky to escape with merely an enforced retirement, and V'Las suspected that he'd actually face house arrest for the rest of his life, perhaps even a secret prison.

"So what now?" said V'Las, furious and frightened, though managing to conceal those emotions to a great degree.

The dark haired Human who'd shot V'Las before, shot him again, with his phaser set to it's weakest setting. It left V'Las conscious, but barely able to stand, after which the dark haired human cut V'Las' restraints and stood the Vulcan to his feet with the blond haired Human's help, while Archer adjusted the power settings on the phaser which Malcolm had set down, and then aimed the phaser at the plate glass, wall to ceiling windows of V'Las' office. It took three shots to completely shatter the thick glass, and then suddenly a blast of heat, and wind entered V'Las' office, as the two Humans walked V'Las to the edge.

V'Las knew better than to plead for his life: if things had come to this, his fate was already determined, though he managed to turn to Malcolm and spit in the Human's face. His gesture meant nothing apparently, for the Human only smiled in return, and then V'Las felt only the wind and the fear as he tumbled some 1,800 feet from his office, to the ground below. His death was instantaneous.

* * *

"…and so," said the news reporter standing in front of the High Command's HQ building some five hours after V'Las had plunged to the ground, "the tragic suicide of Head Administrator V'Las brings to a close a long and distinguished career, and it is certain that his memorial service will be one of the grandest in many years. For MindNet news, I am V'Sel Tosik, signing off."

"Good riddance," said Trip, knowing that with the V'Shar in charge of the investigation, V'Las' death would be written off as a suicide without any sort of real investigation.

"Oh, aye," said Malcolm, and Archer nodded in agreement with the sentiment.

"I got a call from Admiral Forrest hours after V'Las' death," said Archer. "The Vulcan mind probe of V'Las drew some interesting facts from the recently deceased administrator. Turns out he was an agent for the Romulans, and this kov'ratt incident meant to be a wedge between Earth and Vulcan. Apparently they even tried introducing them on Earth, but the kvo'ratt couldn't live long anywhere but our harshest deserts, they're so well evolved to Vulcan's climate and ecology, and even there they died eventually."

"We don't know that for certain, do we?" said Trip. "These things could have found a niche in Earth's deserts. It's not impossible."

"Nothing's impossible, Trip. Maybe they did, but even so, they can't leave those places, Trip," said Archer. "Hell, nothing lives there anyway. We'll be searching for signs of them for decades, but for now I wouldn't sweat it. No one's found signs of any young kvo'ratt, so the Romulans may have overlooked something. Could be that they can't breed anywhere but Vulcan. We'll see, but either way, that's a problem for another day."

"I have also heard," said T'Pol, "that the mind probe yielded V'Las' connections, and the V'Shar is on the hunt for them all. V'Las was most useful to us all, before his... suicide."

"Forrest offered me a ship and told me I'd make Commodore in a few years. Trip's getting bumped up to captain and getting his own ship as well if he takes up with StarFleet once again, and Malcolm's getting bumped up to full commander. Since T'Pol is a member of the Vulcan Navy, I have no idea if she will benefit by her actions in this matter, but I suspect she may."

Archer's words did not surprise anyone there: they'd all resigned together, and even the dimmest light bulb in the room would have known that they were on a mission of vengeance, and had resigned lest their actions bring dishonor to Earth, or StarFleet, but now that Malcolm had reported in to Harris, Harris in his turn had whispered into some ears on the Admiralty commission in order to assure them that the kvo'ratt incident had been avenged, and that these people should be offered commissions by a grateful StarFleet. Nothing was clearly stated, yet the admirals all knew what Harris meant, and chose to reward the avengers of the Enterprise incident.

"I believe that I will resign my commission with the Vulcan Navy," said T'Pol, "and take up service with StarFleet. Mr. Tucker will need a Science officer if he takes command of his own ship."

"And a Tactical officer," said Malcolm, and Trip nodded back, glad to have Malcolm on his ship.

"So it's over," said Trip.

"It's over," said Archer.


	11. Chapter 11

I'd like to give a special shoutout here to MostDismalFeldsparkle who began co-authoring this story with me with only the best of intentions, and in return I drove her to madness with my clumsy attempts at telling this story. Anything you might have liked about this story was her doing, and the leftovers are all mine, so swing by her story page and check out her goodies. I suggest 'The Sparrow' - it's creepy as hell in a good way.


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